


Delicate

by daaarkknight (orphan_account)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Voyeurism, long distance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:29:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21809566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/daaarkknight
Summary: Batman puts 'security' cameras in the bedroom of one Clark Kent.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 5
Kudos: 155
Collections: 8. Gotham ships Bruce Wayne x Batman, Batman, Batman/Superman; Superman/Batman, BatmanFanfiction, Favorite Batman Fics





	Delicate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FabulaRasa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/gifts), [Mithen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/gifts), [Unpretty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unpretty/gifts), [LemonadeGarden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonadeGarden/gifts).



Clark Kent has a favorite masturbatory spot. 

Call him repressed, but he just can't come unless he's looking at _one_ particular object. It doesn't have to be romantic, or picturesque, or anything. Just has to contain...memories. And emotions. 

Like his old bookshelf. The one Ma insisted he take with him. The one which he's had with him since he was a child with a newly blossoming interest in words. The one with all his diaries and journals and comics and novels and dictionaries and... _oh._

He is standing against the wall opposite, splaying his legs, stroking the thick bulge through his pants. His erection curls outwards as his cock unfurls.

Bruce sits in his Wayne Enterprises office in a stark Givenchy suit with a pile of paperwork on his desk, not knowing for the life of him where he is, or what he's there for. All he knows is... _Clark._

He presses his palm into his groin, suppressing the urge to arch into his palm and just hump against it. _Fucking hell._ If Bruce didn't know any better, he would say the Boy Scout is making a _display_ of himself. Teasing. Holding out. 

Clark pulls out his cock. 

Bruce almost groans at the sight of it. The thick shaft, already slick with juices. Kryptonian pre-cum glistening all over the thick, beautiful meat. 

Bruce unzips, and takes some olive oil in his palm, warming it up. He starts stroking himself. Just the sight of Clark like this, spreadeagled against the wall, is driving him crazy. Like he's some _animal_ in _heat._

Clark starts stroking his magnificent cock, just the tip of it. He's rubbing circles into it with the pad of his thumb, leaning back. He shuts his eyes. 

Bruce's chair creaks as he leans into the buttery leather. His breaths get shorter. Clark likes taking his time, playing with himself. Bruce is not used to the _decadence_ of it. _He_ brings himself off with short, businesslike strokes.

Nothing like Clark's languid elegance. Like he has all the time in the world. 

_Beautiful._

A stray curl dangles in Clark's eyes. Bruce brushes it back with his knuckles. 

Clark is leaking heavily now. He takes some more of the wetness off the tip and spreads it liberally over his shaft. He's moaning, biting down on his lip. He starts stroking himself, one finger tracing his vein lazily, like he's showing off his cock to the world. _Look at how irresistible I am._

He opens his eyes and stares. 

Bruce stares back, drinking it all in. He reaches out to smooth Clark's cheek. _My Adonis._

Clark has started palming himself now. His breath hitches, eyes fluttering shut. One hand strays lower, cradling his balls, just gently. He arches his neck, exposing his throat. Bruce wants to mark that throat with his teeth. _Mine._

Clark puts his finger--the one that was just on his shaft--in his mouth. He sucks. Bruce is pretty sure his entire circulatory system has just been rerouted to his groin. His cock throbs, as Clark licks the taste of himself off of his fingers, one by one. 

_Jesus H. Christ._

Bruce fucks his hand harder than he ever has in his entire life.

Clark reaches into his shirt. He draws it up just enough that Bruce gets a glimpse, for a second, of a pink, engorged nipple. He reaches inside and pinches himself, throwing his head back and moaning, with his mouth open, like some French porn star. 

Bruce's hand squeezes around his shaft, tight. His fingers circle his slit, spilling over with his juices. One more touch, and he'll come all over himself. 

_Come with me, Clark._

As if hearing him, Clark wraps his hand firmly around his base, and drives his hands into his balls, long strokes with his elegant fingers wrapped around tight, all the way up to the wet spongy head, then down again. Torturously slow. Up, down, up. He breathes out with his mouth, making a soft, round o of a sigh. 

_He's really enjoying this. No wonder he's so fucking good at it._

Lightening curls at the base of Bruce's cock almost painfully. He frantically strokes his frenulum with one finger--urgent touches, head tilted back, face flushed, sweat dripping from his hair. 

_Clark!_

Bruce comes all over his desk panting, eyes slightly unfocused, lips parted, bitten to the blood. 

Clark's hand milks himself now, faster, faster--his hand a blur, until thick white spurts paint his chest. He sprays it in the general direction of the bookshelf. 

_Such a wicked boy, aren't you. Boy Scout my ass._

Bruce's thighs are quaking. Clark's legs evidently aren't too stable themselves. He's holding himself upright against the wall, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. 

He wipes himself clean with his shirt, the slob. Bruce, being the superior being, reaches inside his drawer for his tissues. He leans back, enjoying the sight of Clark, in his post-orgasm haze, trying to get his bearings. Pulling on his pants clumsily, fumbling with the belt, blushing to the balls. Every bit the Kansan reporter as he stumbles off in the general direction of the washroom.

Bruce languidly tucks himself in neatly, already making up a story in his head for why his table looks like it has been hit with a whirlwind of (what he hopes his secretary thinks of as) whipped cream. _Jesus._ He is almost as bad as Clark.

The thought sends a shiver down his spine.

So maybe that was not the _worst_ thing. 


End file.
